At the Stroke of Madness

by Alex Kava

  “She wouldn’t have used her name or any derivative of it.” She stared at the screen and Tully thought he had lost her attention again when she added, “Try Picasso. I believe it’s one ‘c’ and two ‘s’s. He was her favorite. She used to say she was a whore to Picasso and his work. You may have noticed some of his blue-period influence in her paintings and the cubism influence in her sculptures. Especially her metal sculptures.”

  Tully nodded, though he wouldn’t know cubism from ice cubes, and keyed in P-I-C-A-S-S-O, again using the tip of his pen. “No go.”

  “Hmm…maybe his first name, then.”

  Tully waited, then realized she thought he knew this. Geez! He should know this. If ever there was a time to impress her, this would be it. What the hell was it? She wasn’t helping. Was it a test? He stole a glance her way only to discover that her eyes had been distracted again, her face with the expression of someone lost in thought and trying to find the answers in the wall of paintings. And so even Tully’s flash of brilliance was lost on her when he finally keyed in “Pablo.”

  “Nope. Pablo doesn’t work, either,” he announced, perhaps a bit too proud for someone who had just keyed in the wrong password. He waited. He glanced up at her again and waited some more. Finally he stood up, stretching his back, towering over her.

  “I know what it is,” she said suddenly, without turning her eyes from what looked like an anorexic, pasty self-portrait, a nude with the metal frame cutting her below the emaciated breasts. “Try Dora Maar,” she told him, spelling it slowly while he keyed in the letters.

  “Bingo.” Tully watched AOL come to life, announcing, “You’ve got mail. ” “How did you know that?”

  “Joan started signing some of her paintings as Dora Maar. It’s complicated. She was complicated. That one,” Patterson pointed out, “reminded me.”

  “Why Dora Maar?”

  “Dora Maar was Picasso’s mistress.”

  Tully shook his head and muttered, “Artists.” He clicked on the New Mail. Nothing had been opened since Saturday, the day Joan Begley supposedly disappeared. He clicked on Old Mail. One e-mail address stood out from the rest because there were so many, appearing every day, sometimes twice a day, but stopping the day she disappeared.

  “This could be helpful,” he said as he opened one of the e-mails from the Old Mail queue. “She has quite a few from someone with an e-mail address of SonnyBoy@hotmail.com. Any idea who that might be?”

  “That’s what Maggie and I are hoping you’ll be able to find out.”

  CHAPTER 36

  Joan felt sick to her stomach.

  She had been famished, devouring the food he brought her earlier. Perhaps she had made herself sick, eating too fast. She had even been embarrassed. Here he was holding her captive, possibly hoping to slice out her thyroid at any moment, and she couldn’t wait to wolf down the cheese sandwich and potato chips. But she had always taken solace in food. Why would a time like this be any different?

  Her wrists and ankles burned from a night of trying to pull and twist out of the restraints. Her throat felt raw and her voice had gone hoarse from her yells and screams for help. Where was she that no one could hear her? And if Sonny didn’t kill her, would anyone ever find her? No one was probably even looking for her. How pathetic was that? But true. There was no one in her life who would miss her if she disappeared. No one who would notice. All that hard work, losing weight and making herself look good, and for what? When it came right down to it she was still alone.

  All along that had been her greatest fear, that she would lose all the weight and still not be happy. Oh, she certainly tried. Over and over again she tried, expecting happiness to arrive with the next man she met. And now she met plenty of men, each time hoping this one would somehow make her feel special, complete. And each time they left her feeling more empty and miserable.

  It was something that Dr. P. had warned her about. That she could make a wonderful-looking package who would attract men just like she had always desired, but that someone would still be miserable on the inside.

  Damn! She hated when Dr. P. was right, because yes, she was still miserable, but now she no longer had the extra weight to blame. Before, she could fall back on that excuse. If she couldn’t attract a man, it was because of her weight. If she had no friends, it was because of her weight. If she wasn’t a successful artist it was because no one wanted a contract with a fat artist.

  She had transferred her tendency to find comfort from food to trying to find it in men. Maybe she could try explaining that to Sonny the next time he stopped by. Would that stop him from trying to slice out her hormone deficiency?

  Oh, God! What had she done?

  Suddenly her stomach felt as if she were being sliced in two. She tried to curl up to stop the pain but the restraints wouldn’t let her. This pain was not from eating too fast. Could it be food poisoning? Had the mayonnaise in the sandwich gone bad? Now every muscle in her body tensed as she cringed against the cramp that turned her stomach inside out. What was happening to her? She had never felt like this before.

  Finally the pain eased. She began to relax. Maybe it was from the panic. Maybe she just needed to stay calm. But not a minute later, her entire body braced itself for a second wave of cramps. And that’s when she knew Sonny had poisoned her.

  CHAPTER 37

  Maggie let Jacob Marley lead her to his office, down the hallway to the rear of the funeral home. Each time he attempted to place his hand on the small of her back she found a way to make him remove it, either by turning toward him or simply stopping short. She recognized the tactic as a leveling tool, a way for him to gain the upper hand. She couldn’t help thinking that it was probably an occupational hazard. Maybe it worked with his clients, not the dead ones, of course, but the ones who would be vulnerable and making the spending decisions.

  Now she watched as he offered his office’s guest chair while he took a seat on the front corner of his desk where he would tower over her. That was when Maggie decided there was something about Jacob Marley she didn’t like. What was worse, there was something about him she didn’t trust.

  She remained standing, pretending to be interested in the black-and-white photos that took up one wall, photos of a small boy, presumably young Jacob, an only child, with his mother and father.

  “What is it that I can help you with, Maggie? You don’t mind if I call you Maggie, do you?”

  “Actually, when it’s official business I prefer Agent O’Dell, thank you.”

  “Official business.” He attempted a laugh, but it ended up sounding like a nervous cough. “That sounds serious.”

  Before she could bring up Joan Begley, he asked, “Is this about Steve Earlman?”

  She had forgotten about the town butcher and only now realized Marley and Marley may have been the funeral home that hadn’t managed to bury him. Or at least, not keep him buried. She leaned against the wall, studying Mr. Jacob Marley. She guessed him to be in his early thirties, a plain-looking man with a weak chin and narrow eyes, but in the expensive black suit and sitting high on the corner of his desk, he looked in control and poised. And he was concerned about Steve Earlman.

  “I know it hasn’t been released,” he continued, “but rumor is that Steve’s body showed up in one of those barrels. It’s true, isn’t it? That’s what you’re here to check on, right?”

  He was fidgeting, swinging one foot. Marley didn’t look like the type of man who allowed himself to perspire, and yet if she wasn’t mistaken, there were beads of sweat forming on his upper lip. Now Maggie was curious. What exactly was Jacob Marley worried about?

  “I really can’t go into any details,” she told him. “But if that were true, what explanation could there be for something like that happening?”

  Maggie still believed the killer had access to the body before it made it out to the graveyard. Perhaps he had sneaked into the funeral home after hours. Had there been a break-in that Marley failed to report? Was that what ha
d him worried?

  “We buried him in a vault,” he said, then quickly added, “the family requested a vault. You can see for yourself.” He picked up a folder from his desk, handing it to her.

  It was Steve Earlman’s file with copies of his funeral arrangements and an itemized invoice. Marley had pulled it. He had been waiting for this visit. He was worried about something and it wasn’t poor Steve Earl-man’s corpse.

  She flipped through the file, not sure what she should be looking for. The charges looked standard. No extravagances stood out. And yes, there was a charge of $850 for a vault, not just a vault but something called a “Monticello vault.”

  “Our vaults are sealed tight,” he continued. “They’re guaranteed against cracking or seepage.”

  “Really? Has anyone ever complained?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Has anyone ever asked for their money back?”

  He stared at her then finally laughed, this time a loud, hearty, rehearsed one. “Oh, goodness, no. But that’s a good one, Maggie.”

  “Agent O’Dell.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I really would prefer if you called me Agent O’Dell, Mr. Marley.”

  “Oh, sure, of course.”

  Maggie searched the rest of the documents in Steve Earlman’s file.

  “Actually, I was curious about another client of yours. I understand you worked with Joan Begley to make arrangements for her grandmother’s funeral. Is that right?”

  “Joan Begley?”

  This seemed to throw him off completely.

  “Yes, of course, I worked with Joan last week. We finished the last of the paperwork on Saturday. Was there a problem?”

  Jacob Marley seemed more surprised than concerned this time.

  She wanted to ask about their dinner out at Fellini’s. She wanted to ask him if he knew she was missing. But the look on Marley’s face answered her questions. Whatever hope she had that Jacob Marley may have had something to do with Joan Begley’s disappearance, Maggie knew that hope was squelched by the look of total confusion and surprise. Jacob Marley was hiding something, but it didn’t have anything to do with Joan. Instead, it was probably right in front of her inside this file.

  Marley’s phone began ringing. He grabbed the receiver. “Yes?”

  What should she be looking for? What was Marley nervous they would find?

  “I’m with someone right now,” Marley said into the phone, unable to hide his irritation. “No, I won’t be able to pick up the body for at least another hour. Is Simon working today? Good. Send him when he gets in.”

  He hung up the phone and turned back to Maggie. “Worst part of this job is that we always have to be on call and keep some strange hours.”

  “Yes, I suppose it would be very unpredictable,” Maggie said, flipping through the pages. Then she noticed something that caught her attention. If she remembered correctly, Calvin Vargus was one of the men who had discovered the first body at the rock quarry. “You contract out with Calvin Vargus and Walter Hobbs to dig the graves?”

  “Yes, that’s right.” He shifted his weight and the other leg began swinging this time. “They have the equipment to do it.”

  “How long have they been doing it?”

  “Oh, gosh—” Marley folded his arms over his chest “—I think as far back as when Wally’s father ran the business and he contracted with my father. So it goes back a ways. My father was a very loyal man, working with the same people for years.” He pointed to one of the photos on the wall, a portrait of the older Marley, looking somber as if ready for a funeral. “People felt the same way about him, too, God rest his soul. Even now when I try to do something different, make a few changes here and there, I can’t seem to do it without someone telling me, ‘That’s not the way Jacob Marley would do it.’”

  Suddenly it struck Maggie. Maybe she was wrong after all. “Your father’s name was Jacob, too?”

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  “So you’re a junior?”

  “Yes, but please, I really hate being called Junior. Anything but Junior.”

  CHAPTER 38

  Tully let her wait on him. She had insisted. It was the first time he had been inside her brownstone. The first time he had been invited. By default, of course, he reminded himself, but still, an invitation was an invitation.

  She had decided they would be more comfortable here than at Joan Begley’s loft. There, she had been distracted. Tully had noticed her walking, stepping lightly, quietly, reverently. He knew Joan Begley was a client of Dr. Patterson’s, but he didn’t have to be a profiler to guess she had also been somewhat of a friend. Or if not a friend, then someone Dr. Patterson genuinely cared about. There was a connection. Even he could see that, feel that.

  He studied her face while she poured the coffee into mugs, preoccupied with the task, and so it was safe to study her. He sat at the counter that separated her living room from her kitchen—a spic-and-span kitchen with hanging utensils and pots and pans in more sizes and shapes than Tully could think of uses for. Here, among her own things, she looked less vulnerable than she had at Joan Begley’s. But even here, she still looked…it was hard to explain. She looked tired. No, that wasn’t right. She looked…sad.

  “Cream or sugar?” she asked with only a glance over her shoulder.

  “No, thanks. I take it black.” He knew before she reached for the cream that she would pour a healthy dollop of it into hers, making it look like milky chocolate. Cream, but no sugar. And if available she preferred a café mocha.

  The realization startled him. These days he couldn’t remember what color socks he had put on in the morning—hopefully they at least matched. And yet, here he was remembering how Dr. Gwen Patterson took her coffee.

  “So you think Maggie’s right? That this Sonny has something to do with Joan’s disappearance?”

  “He sends her e-mails every day that she’s in Connecticut, obviously every day after they met. Sometimes two and three a day. Then all of a sudden they just happen to stop on Saturday, the day she disappeared. Too much of a coincidence, don’t you think?”

  “But from the e-mails we read, they sounded like friends, confidants. He didn’t sound like someone who would want to hurt her.”

  Her cell phone interrupted them and Dr. Patterson managed to grab it before the second ring, like someone expecting news, any news.

  “Hello?” Then her entire face softened. “Hi, Maggie,” she greeted her friend. “No, I’m okay. Yes, I did meet Tully at Joan’s apartment. Actually, he’s here. No, here at my brownstone.” She listened for a few minutes then said, “Hold on.” She handed him the phone. “She wants to talk to you.”

  “Hey, O’Dell.”

  “Tully, can you tell me anything about Sonny?”

  “Well, we were able to get into her e-mail.”

  “Already?”

  “Dr. Patterson figured out the password. There’re daily e-mails from this guy, but we were just talking about that. They sound pretty chummy, in a friendly way, not a romantic way. Right?” He looked at Gwen for her agreement. “But here’s the thing. His e-mails stop the day she disappeared.”

  “Can you track him?”

  “I’ve got Bernard working on it. So far it looks like he uses a free e-mail account and there’s no customer profile on him anywhere that I can find. I’m betting he uses a public computer. Probably the local library or maybe one of those cafés that have computers available.”

  “Have you talked to Cunningham today?”

  “No, he’s in meetings all day. Why?”

  “He managed to get out of a meeting long enough to call me.”

  “Uh-oh. You’re busted?”

  “Not sure. Look, Tully, I just don’t want you getting into trouble for helping me out on this.”

  Tully glanced up at Dr. Patterson. She stood on the other side of the counter, sipping coffee and watching him, thinking he was focused on listening to O’Dell when he couldn’t take his
eyes off of her.

  “Tully, do you hear me?” O’Dell was saying in his ear. “I don’t want you getting into trouble over this.”

  “Don’t worry about it, O’Dell.”

  CHAPTER 39

  He fixed her soup, hearty chicken noodle. It was just canned—that’s all he had—but it smelled good even after he had dissolved the crystals in it. She’d never notice the tiny white residue. Especially after he crumbled saltine crackers into it.

  He placed the small bottle back behind his mother’s secret stash, her array of “home remedies” that included molasses and honey and vinegar alongside cough syrup and plenty of children’s aspirin. The brown bottle contained the magic crystals she insisted would make him well. It wasn’t until after she was gone, her control over him broken only by death, that he discovered the brown bottle with the real label hidden underneath an old expired prescription. The real label simply read in bold, black letters, “Arsenic.” He had kept it just as he had found it, realizing that some day he might need that kind of control over someone. And he had been right.

  He found her sitting at the window, exactly where he had left her with the restraints now wrapped around the chair. She stared out at the woods through the tempered glass. He had specially ordered and installed the custom-made glass himself. Thick and unbreakable, it allowed a view and let the sunshine in, but on the outside it simply looked like a mirrored solar panel for heat. It provided an excellent work environment—sunny and cheerful, yet private and quiet, protecting his specimens.

  She looked up at him. This time her hand didn’t move, though he could see the red welts on her wrists where she must have fought the leather restraints again. And then he saw the scratches and grooves in the chair’s arm. She had ruined the wood. She had done it on purpose. His mother’s chair, a Duncan Phyfe he had reupholstered himself, and she had ruined it by rubbing the buckles of the leather restraints into the wood.